Summer's End
by Autumn Breezes
Summary: Aracelis Summerfield is just another 17 year old, trying to support her struggling household. She's the one in charge, the one who always has to stay composed and stable when everything around her is crumbling. -Huh really bad summary. :/ Basically, it's the story of what happens at Aracelis' reaping. K cause there's an ax... xD


**The Hunger Games is not mine**, it belongs to the incredibly talented** Suzanne Collins**.

So this is just a little background story for an RP Hunger Games I'm doing on instagram. Thought that I may (or might?) as well upload it here!

I hope you all enjoy it. :D

~Hawky (Or Autumn, whatever)

* * *

4 AM. When all the good kids are still asleep.

I pull on my cloth boots, my worn jeans and a plaid shirt.

4 AM. Too early for anyone sensible to be awake.

I run my fingers through my hair as I rush outside, breathing in the cold morning air, not bothering to close the door.

4 AM. When everyone should be burrowed deep in their blankets, eyelids fluttering as they dream.

But not me.

I sprint into the woods, trying to regain some of the body heat I'm losing to the pre-dawn air. My fingers are already feeling numb, and I like it. I find my ax tucked neatly in a dent in the ground, hidden by a bush that always stays green.

My fingers fit easily into the grooves carved for them and no one else. I'm normally not very possessive of anything. Quite apathetic, in fact. What's the point of trying to cling to everything with your emotions when you'll end up losing it anyways?

Save yourself the broken heart.

My ax is different, though. Made just for me before she lost it. Before she started hearing voices and seeing things that weren't there. Before she started locking herself in her room and yelling at nothing.

Before someone nearly beat her to death.

My ax is like a living memory, of better times, of better lives, of better mothers.

I slam the blade into a tree. Better days. Pull it out and slam it again. Better lives. Out and in. Out and in. Better moms.

This goes on for too long. I was supposed to slip back in bed before anyone else wakes up. If Dad finds out, he'll be sure to lecture me on it before silently worrying about me for another month.

But I can't stop.

Maybe it's because today's the reaping. Maybe it's because this year I'm the only one who can apply for tesserae. Maybe it's because my good for nothing sister is already making plans to trade away the oil and grain I'm risking my _life_ for, just to get some more pretty things.

I hate my family, I hate my family, I **hate** my family.

Mom is basically gone. She screams at nothing and isn't capable of anything anymore. All Corrin can ever do is get drunk at night and barter for pretty trinkets during the day. Dad tries, surely, but it's hard for him to get anything done when he's so busy worrying about Corrin, about Mom, about me, about everything.

So what do I get?

I get the responsibility of taking care of a schizophrenic mother and a sister who won't ever amount to anything.

She's 19 and she still acts like life is a big party, that she can do whatever and someone else will find a way to take care of things.

I've cut half way through the tree when Dad finds me, crumpled on the ground, sobbing.

He sends me back inside, where Corrin is waiting with her stupid bubbly smile, the exact opposite of the scowl that almost always sits on my face.

"Today's the reaping!" She grins, as if it's great news. To her it is. It means she gets to play dress up with me, as if I were a doll, not her sister.

Dad shuffles back inside and starts making breakfast. No arguments from him. No anything.

"Come on, now," She ushers me into her room. It's a disgusting pink, painted years ago when we had two incomes to pay for things. Corrin immediately starts searching for a dress for me to wear, while I stand there, stewing in my own hatred for what our family has become. "Put this on!" She beams at me, shoving a flimsy flowery dress into my hands. I roll my eyes, storm out of her room and into my own, wiping away any trace of the weakness I had shown in the forest.

I take off my usual outfit and put on the dress. It fits surprisingly well. I wouldn't be too bothered if this was all I had to go through.

But no, then she gets to play with my hair. It's the only things that I'll grudgingly let her touch. I don't trust those hands to do my makeup, or anything beyond my hair.

She hums happily as she plays with my wavy locks, changing from the natural dark brown at the top to a blonde at the end of my curls. I'll admit it; I actually like it like that.

After too long, Corrin has finally decided on a satisfactory hair style, a braid wrapped around my head and the rest of my hair left how it is, but all pushed to one side.

She claps her hands and sends me away. Before I go back to the kitchen, and go into my room and find my necklace. A simple silver three-leafed clover fastened securely to a piece of black rope.

A three-leafed clover can do anything it's supposed 'luckier' cousin can. Luck can't get you anywhere you're not willing to go on your own.

I put it on, and it sits comfortably around my neck.

I'm still wearing my black cloth boots as I walk into the kitchen, where Dad's made pancakes out of the disgusting stuff the Capitol gives us and claims it's grain.

I eat it without a word. I can feel his eyes on me, the same green as my own, only darkened with worry. It makes me feel bad that I've helped contribute to his anxiety today, but I don't say anything.

When I'm finished, I stand, finally daring to meet those once bright green eyes.

"I'll be going, then." I mutter.

He holds my gaze and says nothing. He slowly sets down the dish he was washing and speaks.

"I'm coming with you."

Dad never wants to come. The suspense is always too much for him. Besides, he doesn't trust Corrin to take care of mom on her own. I can hear the screeches coming from the locked room down the hall.

"No, you need to take care of mom." I say firmly.

"It won't be for long. They'll be alright." I can tell he doesn't believe it, but I simply shrug. Let him do what he wants.

I walk out the door, not looking back to see if he's following. I can feel his presence, trailing a few feet behind me, not sure what happened to his little girl.

As we arrive at the clearing, I get my finger pricked and turn away towards the 17 year old section, where I know no one, but everyone knows me. _The girl with the psycho mom, _they whisper when they think I can't hear. _The one with an alcoholic for a sister._

I do nothing but keep my head up, keep the defiant, independent, and rebellious air that always surrounds me in public. I see Dad out of the corner of my eye, standing in the spectator section, watching nervously and replying to the quiet inquiries others make.

The apprehensive murmurs stop as the microphone is tapped, the video played. Every year the same process, every year another two children shipped to the Arena, shipped to their death.

But this year, there's a surprise, a twist in the normal procedures of the Reaping. I can tell Dad hates the change, the aberration of the normal.

This year's surprise is that the female tribute isn't some random, whimpering 13 year old.

This year's female tribute is Aracelis Summerfield.

This year's female tribute is me.


End file.
